


Cursed by the Gods

by linndechir



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victarion hears of Balon's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cursed by the Gods

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a fic meme on tumblr ("write a drabble about one character mourning another character's death").

It was not anger or sadness he felt when he heard of his brother's death, but an overwhelming feeling of nausea, a tightness in his throat that quickly wandered down, until his chest felt like it was constricted by iron bands and his entrails seemed to tie themselves into knots, and he might have thrown up if not for the irrational fear that he'd just spit blood. His muscles felt like they had turned to stone, and his eyes burnt like someone had poured acid into them, but there were no tears spilling from them yet, as if his grief refused to leave his body that easily.

He was disoriented, the earth seemed to shift underneath his feet. The thought of his brother dying was unreal. Victarion had always been familiar with death, he had killed more men than he cared to remember, and he had seen countless men die, men who had been close to him. He had lost brothers and nephews, sailors and warriors he had gone reaving with for years, men he would have called friends. He had lost three wives, and more unborn sons. He had always known that his own death was merely a matter of time, and whenever it had come close, he had been ready to welcome it.

But Balon's death was unthinkable. Unimaginable. His brother had been like the sea itself, angry and violent and changeable, but also reliable in his own way, he was always there, and a world without Balon seemed as absurd as the sea just disappearing one morning.

Balon had been a constant in Victarion's life as far as he could remember. As soon as Victarion had learnt how to walk, he had been following Balon around; whatever Balon had done, Victarion had been with him, always by his side, always supporting him. Despite their age difference, they had gone on their first reaving together because Victarion had refused to stay behind. Balon had been with him when he had had his first woman, he had been there when Victarion first killed someone, he had stayed by his side when Victarion first got gravely wounded and spent a night screaming in fever and agony.

And even later, as they grew older and found themselves with too many responsibilities of their own, as their father died and Balon took his place while Victarion led his fleet, even when they stopped spending their every day together, Balon was still the North point on Victarion's compass, the mind and will that led Victarion's ships and his fists and his axe.

Nausea turned into numbness as he realised that his compass was gone, that he was lost at sea like a greenlander who didn't know how to steer his ship. He had to go back to Pyke, he realised. For what? To take Balon's place? He was no leader, no king, and Euron was older than him. Euron ... he had heard rumours that Euron had returned just after Balon had died, but he could not let Euron be king, not even if Balon's death had not been his doing. But who else was there? Balon's sons were gone, and while Victarion would have gladly followed Asha had she been born a man, the Iron Islands would never be ruled by a woman. The uncertainty overwhelmed him, he was too used to having Balon tell him what to do, what to expect. He was far from a fearful man, in fact he could barely remember when he had last been afraid of anything, but the thought of going through the rest of his life without Balon's guidance filled him with mind-numbing terror. On a raid to the Summer Isles he had once heard of an old custom, that when a powerful man died, his servants, his wife and mistresses, his guards would die with him. Victarion had thought it an rather wasteful custom at the time, but suddenly it made sense to him. If a man had lived to serve for so long, what good was he when he had nobody to serve anymore?

Balon would call him morose and brooding, he thought, as if he hadn't been just as bad. The thought almost brought a smile to Victarion's face before he remembered that he would have to brood alone from now on, without the quiet, comforting presence of his brother. He swallowed hard.

His eyes were still burning, burning from hot saltwater, and he finally felt tears on his cheek, only a few before an ugly sob tore itself from his throat, raw and painful. He hadn't wept since his wife's death, but it hurt just as much as he remembered, like his body was trying to rip itself apart with grief.

It wouldn't, of course. Death was cruel and cared nothing for the attachments of men. But Victarion was Ironborn, not some soft greenlander who would be broken by grief. He would go on with his life, he would do what needed to be done, as he always had. He would not dishonour his brother's memory by ending his life like some servant from the Summer Isles. He was a Greyjoy, and Greyjoys weren't weak.

He tried to find comfort and strength in that as he knelt on the floor and let the tears wash over his face. But deep down he knew that every man had a place in the world, and his place had been by Balon's side. Without him Victarion was hardly more than an axe without an arm to wield it, a ship without a helmsman to steer it, nothing but a warrior who had been cursed by the gods to live longer than his king.


End file.
